At The Duke's Pleasure Page 23

  She still did not want to be wed out of obligation.

  And he still did not love her.

  So even if her heart was shredding to pieces inside her chest, her decision about their union remained the same.

  For a moment, she almost wished he would lie. That he would take her in his arms right now and spin some faerie story to convince her what it was she wanted to hear. She was vulnerable enough right now that she might let herself believe him, even if his words were nothing but falsehoods and deceits.

  But he didn’t take her in his arms.

  And he spoke no words of love.

  Because Edward Byron did not lie.

  Thank goodness, he hadn’t a clue how she really felt about him. Nor did she plan to enlighten him.

  A deep weariness passed through her, along with a chill that made her think of January rather than the presently warm days of May. “I believe I’ll go upstairs and change. I need to return to skirts, I believe.”

  “Cousin Wilhelmina would be aghast if she saw you in your current attire, so yes, go change before she and Mallory get home. Your hair is going to take enough explaining as it is.”

  He paused as if he might say something further about the wedding date. To her relief, he did not. “I shall see you at dinner then. I think it might be wise to stay at home tonight.”

  She opened her mouth to disagree, but realized that she wouldn’t mind a quiet evening tonight. Along with a measure of time to consider exactly what she should do next. “Yes. All right.”

  Catching hold of her hand, he pressed a kiss against her palm, then released her. Escorting her to the door, he unlocked it and sent her on her way.

  As soon as Claire was gone, Edward closed the door again, crossed to the nearest chair and sat down. Shutting his eyes, he fought for composure, willing the fierce arousal that still plagued him to subside. If not for Hughes’s inconvenient interruption, Edward knew he would have taken Claire right there on the desk, despite the fact that she was a virgin. Truly, she drove him mad, scattering his senses to the point where all he’d been able to think about was having her, regardless of the location or the propriety or the consequences.

  Lucifer’s tail, what a place for a consummation—or rather a near consummation.

  Any other girl would have slapped him, but not Claire. Then again, no other young woman of his acquaintance would have dressed in men’s clothes, snuck into Brooks’s Club, won at cards against a bounder, then come home to battle toe-to-toe with her fiancé.

  Despite his earlier fury, he couldn’t help but admire her panache. She possessed the most indomitable spirit he’d ever encountered, almost fearless at times—proud, beautiful and determined. She would make him a magnificent duchess once she settled down—and once he got her to the altar.

  He hoped she would do as he asked and set a wedding date. And one that wasn’t too many months in the future, since he didn’t know how much longer he could manage to keep his hands off her. Not that he’d done terribly well on that score today. Even now, he wanted to go upstairs to her room, strip her to the skin and continue what they’d started here in his study. Wouldn’t she be surprised if he barged in. Maybe he’d even find her in her bath. His erection throbbed with renewed strength, reminding him exactly how unsatisfied he was and how long he’d been without a woman.

  But he didn’t just want a woman. He wanted Claire.

  What was it she’d said about him being too controlled? With her, he wasn’t nearly controlled enough. Just a touch of her sweet lips, the brush of her delicate hand, and all he could think about was losing himself inside her. He would never have expected it, but she had a way of stripping him of his civilized veneer and leaving only the man behind. An incautious man who’d been on the verge of tupping his fiancée on top of his desk.

  Blister it, why had Hughes had to interrupt? And why do I have to act the gentleman now rather than going upstairs to do as I so badly wish to do?

  But he wouldn’t.

  It might half kill him, but he would be patient awhile more. In the end, Claire would be his. Once she was, there would be no more talk about wanting her freedom. She wouldn’t have the time or the need, not with him keeping her satisfied—first as his wife and later as the mother of their children.

  Groaning at heated thoughts of exactly how they would make those children, he shut his eyes again and stared counting backward from a thousand. He’d reached the mid–six hundreds before he decided he was steady enough to resume his usual activities.

  Standing, he walked to his desk and realized he probably ought to set the surface back to rights rather than leave it to raise speculation among the staff. As he rounded the corner, he caught sight of an object lying on the carpet. Bending, he picked it up.

  It was a small golden frame decorated with ivy leaves. Inside was a painted miniature of Braebourne, the stately house’s honey gold stone gleaming in the sunlight. He’d had the picture on his desk for years, a reminder of his home in the Gloucestershire countryside. It had always been one of his favorites. Claire must have knocked it to the floor during their lovemaking. Smiling at the recollection, he went to put it back where he’d always kept it. Suddenly he stopped, rubbing his thumb over the gold as he thought again of Claire. That was when he remembered the miniature he had of her.

  Years ago, her father had sent him a likeness of Claire to reacquaint him with his betrothed. At the time, he’d had scant intention of going through with the marriage and had tucked the small painting away in a drawer.

  In this very desk, if he wasn’t mistaken.

  Setting down the Braebourne miniature, he began opening drawers in search of Claire’s likeness. He was on his third one when he found it, hidden in the back. Untying the strings of a black velvet pouch, he let the miniature drop into his palm.

  And there was Claire, smiling and lovely and looking so very young. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen at the time, he realized. Still just a child. No wonder he’d run from the arrangement. No wonder he’d dismissed her and buried this portrait away where he wouldn’t need to be reminded of his then-unwanted obligation.

  But she wasn’t a child any longer and he wasn’t running from their betrothal now.

  Ironically, she was the one doing the running this time. But he was catching up and would soon have her firmly in hand with her vows spoken and his ring on her finger.

  I shall have a new miniature painted, he decided. This one of Claire in all her womanly glory.

  As his duchess, there would be official portraits of her commissioned to hang in the family galleries, both here and at Braebourne. As for the miniature, however, that he would keep for himself. And he would place it right here on his desk. Or inside his pocket, were he of a mind.

  Gazing again at the painting of young Claire, he was about to slip it back inside its pouch, when he stopped. Leaning forward instead, he propped the portrait next to the rendering of Braebourne, pleased by the result.

  Once again surveying the mess he and Claire had created, he returned to his straightening up.

  Chapter 18

  Over the next two weeks, Claire and Edward settled into an unspoken truce of sorts. For her part, Claire didn’t engage in any new acts of rebellion. As for Edward, he refrained from pressing her further on the topic of a wedding date.

  That first morning following her visit to Brooks’s Club had been an unhappy one as she’d pleaded unsuccessfully again with Edward to let his brothers remain in Town. But despite her entreaties, and those of Mallory and the twins themselves, Edward had remained unmoved. And so, at exactly ten o’clock, a coach containing Lords Leo and Lawrence and their baggage had rolled away, leaving London far behind.

  Claire found herself wondering when, or if, she would see them again, her conscience weighing heavy over the fact that she had gotten them banished. But then she had no time for further reflection about that particular transgression, since she had her own to explain. Beginning with her hair.

 
The moment Cousin Wilhelmina saw, she’d called for her smelling salts and fainted dead away into a nearby chair. Mallory, on the other hand, pressed her fingers to her mouth for a long moment and stared. Walking forward, she’d smiled at Claire, then leaned near. “It’s just adorable,” she’d whispered. “I only wish I had the nerve.”

  But over the next few days, Claire realized that Mallory was lucky she didn’t, in fact, have so much nerve, since flouting social convention could elicit uncomfortable results.

  For in spite of Edward’s visible show of support, Claire found herself disinvited to several entertainments. Everywhere she went, people stared and whispered, and not in the sort of light hearted way she’d experienced in the past. Not only was the Ton scandalized, many were openly disapproving; a few sticklers even gave her the cut direct.

  Additionally, Edward’s warning about Almack’s proved true, when the patronesses withdrew her vouchers. With apparent gracious condescension—or so Claire was informed in the letter she received—the great ladies had decided to allow Mallory to retain her own vouchers, since she had done nothing untoward. Mallory, however, refused to use them, declaring that she would not attend the Wednesday evening dance, if Claire could not also attend. But at least Mallory was not being punished, since Claire couldn’t have stood knowing she’d hurt her friend.

  At first, she’d hoped the furore would unsettle Edward enough that he would change his mind and cast her out after all. But as always, he was unflappable, going on as if nothing out of the ordinary had ever occurred.

  “Keep your chin up,” he advised her on the evening of their first public appearance, “and it will all blow past quickly enough.”

  As the first week moved into the next, she discovered that he was right. In fact, among the younger, ultra-fashionable set, she was considered something of a cause célèbre, spoken of in reverential tones and given awe-struck glances. A few bold young women even cropped their own hair, dubbing their short new style la Marsden.

  Then there was the gaming, people constantly inviting her to play cards in order for her to demonstrate her amazing skill. But despite her reputation, she wasn’t a lady gamester and had no interest in proving herself as such.

  As for her share of the winnings from her game with Lord Moregrave, Edward had taken the money in hand to invest for her. She’d won what many might consider a substantial nest egg and she had been rather grateful for his assistance, especially when he assured her the funds would be held in her name alone.

  Most men would have kept the money for themselves. As their excuse, they would have cited the laws which stipulated that a woman’s property belonged to her husband, or her father, and arranged for the funds to be included in her dowry. But not Edward. Instead, he’d established an account for her, suggesting that if she didn’t spend it herself, she might want to consider leaving it to the children he hoped they would have one day.

  But there would be no children, she thought with a wistful sigh, because there would be no marriage. For in spite of everything, she was still set on proceeding with her original plan.

  Standing now inside Hatchard’s on the second Tuesday of June, Claire idly browsed the stacks, Mallory and Cousin Wilhelmina busy doing the same in another section of the store. Holding open a book, Claire stared at the pages. But the words blurred before her gaze, her thoughts centred instead on Edward and her future with—or rather without—him.

  Their passionate interlude in his study two weeks ago had quite literally shaken her to her toes. More than ever, she understood how deeply vulnerable she was to him, since all he had to do was touch her and she was lost. Just think what it would be like if she relented and married him. Only imagine how it would be if she lay in his bed, in his arms, each night.

  Wonderful on the one hand, she thought with a dreamy sigh. Terrifying on the other, since she could easily see herself becoming his devoted supplicant—hanging on his every word, longing for each new touch, his next smile, his next laugh. How simple it would be to let herself believe there was more to his caresses than simple passion.

  But what if that’s all it was, lust?

  Worse, what if his current interest came not from true desire, but was driven instead by their battle of wills, and his natural need to win? Once the war was over, what then? And if he won, would his interest in her die? After all, he would have what he wanted then, would he not?

  She couldn’t help but notice that he hadn’t tried to touch her again since that afternoon, not even to steal a kiss. She told herself it was because he didn’t trust himself not to take things too far, remembering how very close he’d come to claiming her virginity. But what if it was something else entirely? What if it really was all just a game?

  Oh, heavens, I don’t know any more what to think or what to do.

  He wanted her to set a wedding date, but she couldn’t.

  He wanted her to give in, but she was still afraid that she might be making the biggest mistake of her life if she did. Not without some declaration of affection on his part. Not without some assurance that he wanted to marry her for more than reasons of duty. For more than the necessity of assuring his line and producing the next Clybourne heir.

  Snapping the book closed, she shoved it back onto its shelf.

  “Not to your liking, I take it,” said a voice in a smooth drawl. “Is it the subject matter or the author who has given offense?”

  Turning on a sharp inhalation, Claire gazed up. “Lord Islington,” she said, laying a hand against her chest, “you startled me.”

  “How thoughtless. Pray forgive me, since I fear that I am now the one who has given offense.” Taking a step back, he made her an elegant bow.

  “No, of course you have not,” she rushed to assure him, shaking off her initial fright. “What brings you here this afternoon?”

  A faint smile curved his mouth. “The same thing that has led you here today, I would imagine. I have been known to read on occasion, you know.”

  “I am sure you do and I have never imagined otherwise.” Pausing, she drew a breath. “How have you been, my lord? Some while has passed since last we met. Have you been away?”

  He nodded. “Indeed. Personal business called me into the country, but now I am returned. I hope you will not take it amiss if I tell you that I hear your name mentioned everywhere. I understand you’ve earned something of a reputation. Brooks’s Club, was it not?”

  She lifted her chin. “It was. But then you should know all about reputations, my lord.”

  He laughed. “Quite correct. It would appear you and I share something in common now.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t go that far, particularly since I still do not know what it is that you are supposed to have done.” She paused the moment the words were out, amazed at her boldness. “Forgive me, I had no right to inquire. Please forget I asked.”

  “No, it’s quite all right,” he said, dismissing her concern. “The matter involved a young lady and a rather unfortunate incident with a storm. We had gone out riding, just us two, and were some miles from her home when a severe thunderstorm struck. We took shelter in a nearby cottage, but by the time the rain and lightning passed sufficiently for us to return, evening had fallen. Her father claimed she was ruined. I thought otherwise and refused to do what some might deem the honourable thing. Nothing untoward had occurred and I couldn’t see the point of forcing her into a loveless marriage, nor myself for that matter.”

  He sighed, his features reserved. “Since then, the story has been greatly embellished, casting me in the role of heartless debaucher. I assure you, Lady Claire, that I never touched that young lady and did only as I thought best for us both. It is unfortunate that so many in Society choose to see evil where only innocence exists.”

  Claire was silent, struck by the fact that she and Lord Islington did have more in common than she might ever have imagined. He too knew what it was like to be compelled to accept a marriage not of one’s own choosing. He too knew what it was to ref
use such a match, even in the face of immense disapproval. He’d only wanted his own happiness, as she did herself, yet he was condemned. Unfairly now, she could see.

  “But enough of that,” he said with a cheerful look, “especially since I haven’t had the opportunity to compliment you on your hair. It is exquisite, worthy of being dubbed la Marsden. A pity there is a war, since the French would adore you. They love saucy jeune fille, unlike their stuffy English counterparts.” Taking a moment, he tugged at the cuff of one glove. “So how is Clybourne these days?”

  Claire forced her lips not to twitch. “His Grace is quite well.”

  “Frankly, I am surprised to see you here. I half expected you to be confined to your residence.”

  “Not at all. And I am out with Lady Mallory and her cousin Mrs Byron for the day.”

  “Well, I am glad we had a chance to speak,” he said.

  She smiled. “As am I.”

  “A shame I cannot ask you to walk with me in the park one afternoon. Or to take a carriage ride. I’ve a brand new phaeton I should love you to try.”

  A carriage ride with Lord Islington?

  Imagine the outcry.

  Imagine how furious Edward would be.

  And suddenly she knew precisely how to separate herself from Edward. Assuming she had the fortitude to go that far. Were she to do what she was thinking, Edward would not only break things off, he would likely never speak to her again. Was that what she wanted? Did she dare take such a drastic step? One she knew would be utterly irrevocable?

  Suddenly she realized it was her only option, her very last chance.

  “I would enjoy that too, my lord,” she said, her heart beating painfully inside her chest. “Do you ever drive out into the countryside? London can become so close in the summer.”

  He lifted a brow, a curious light gleaming in his gaze. “It can indeed.”

  “But I suppose we couldn’t go during the day,” she mused. “Perhaps some evening during a ball, just for a lark. What would you say to that?”